


The Time of Universal Peace

by idleton



Series: The Gift of Men [2]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF, Masters of Rome - Colleen McCullough
Genre: Abuse of Classics, Angst, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27777103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idleton/pseuds/idleton
Summary: ‘Did you really think I had no idea, Imperator Caesar.’ Julia sneered. ‘Who Marcus Agrippa saw on our conjugal bed? Who it was that he pretended he was fucking?’—Chronologically, this is the last part of the series. It spans Augustus’ reign after Actium to his death in 14 AD. It won’t have a linear narrative, just a collection of fragments.
Relationships: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa/Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus | Emperor Augustus
Series: The Gift of Men [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029498
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. Divinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11 BC. The show must go on.

Tiberius Claudius Nero, as every Roman alive, welcomed the news that their Princeps was finally showing signs of coming out from his mourning, which had begun the moment news of Marcus Agrippa’s sudden passing in Campania reached Rome, almost a full year earlier.

Tiberius himself was shaken by his father-in-law’s death, as was his dear Vipsania, whose grief took months to heal. Oh, his poor wife! She had wept and languished for days. How he despised himself for not being able to console her! He had made offerings to all the Gods, had pleaded with Vesta ceaselessly to alleviate Vipsania’s pain, had prayed to Divine Julius to intercede, but her recovery had been slow.

The task of organising the funeral fell to the Princeps, or it would be more accurate to say he had insisted on doing it himself. Caesar had walked with his best friend on the general’s last journey home. There, he had seen to every last detail of the grandest state funeral Tiberius had ever seen, more than fitting for a man of Agrippa’s stature: a former consul, tribune, one of Rome’s finest generals, Augustus’ dearest friend. There, the Princeps had delivered a magnificent oration that ensured nobody would ever forget the name of Marcus Agrippa. There, the Princeps had ordered his friend’s remains taken to rest inside his own mausoleum. Then the Princeps had shut himself inside Augusti House, and was not seen in the Senate for nigh a year. That was not to say he neglected his duties: he took missives and dispatched orders with the same near-prescient accuracy he had always demonstrated.

Still, it had been a trying year for Rome, who found the thought of not having their Father of the Country at the helm deeply unsettling. Especially for Tiberius and a growing chunk of the citizenry, who in their hearts worshipped the Princeps himself alongside his divine father. What else can Augustus be but a god, willingly shackled to the mortal realm for them all? He would return to Divine Julius’ side eventually, but not yet! Rome needed him! So it was with a bone-shagging relief that Tiberius received the news of Augustus emerging from his longer-than-necessary mourning. His jubilance was only interrupted by the messenger’s next piece of information, that he was to report to Augustus at the earliest opportunity - there was an important matter the Princeps wished to discuss with him.

What is a man to do, when a god called? Tiberius promptly put himself in order, kissed Vipsania farewell (who by then was fully recovered) and went to see his master.

Tiberius was shown into the same spacious study in which Augustus always received his guests, though the space was now crammed from floor to ceiling with books and scrolls; many more lay open on the enormous oak desk, half-filled with Augustus’ neat handwriting. The man himself was sat in the middle, reed quill poised; but his eyes were glassy and far-away, staring at something invisible beyond the open doors leading into the peristyle garden. He looked old, thought Tiberius, startled. In the young man’s mind, Augustus had always been as timeless as marble; but the loss of one so dear seemed to have cracked his mortal form, he appeared to have aged more in the past year than he did in the thirty or so that Tiberius knew him. He was still fine in features, but they were cast in an almost alarming weariness.

‘Caesar.’ Called Tiberius hesitantly. Augustus blinked, turned in Tiberius’ direction, looking a little lost. Unsettling. But the quicksilver focus rapidly returned to his eyes, and he nodded to Tiberius, every inch the Princeps once more.

‘Tiberius. Sit, my dear friend. We have much to discuss.’ Tiberius made to sit on the far side of the imposing desk, stopped when Augustus stood and indicated to the elegant sofa off to one side. Nonplussed but pleased, Tiberius sat himself next to the Princeps, who smiled at him serenely.

‘Tiberius. Do you remember the first time we met?’

‘Of course, Caesar, though I was a very small, very silly child. You had come to arrange the marriage between yourself and my mother, but the moment I saw you, I launched at you and demanded that you take me to Olympus.’ He chuckled, embarrassed.

‘Yes, you called me Venus, though I was very clearly a man.’

‘I will never live that down, will I? In my defence, you were both blond, and I was four.’

‘If I stretch the limits of my magnanimity, I might be able to forgive you eventually. After all, I am a Julian, and we are descended from Venus herself.’ said Augustus, lightly.

‘Now, Tiberius. You have come far from that silly child. You are one of my best generals, one of my best administrators, and one of my closest confidants. In all of Rome, I would be hard-pressed to find a more capable leader of men than you are. But above all, you are pious, loyal, and humble. I am proud of you.’

Tiberius listened, enraptured, and might have fallen onto his knees had Augustus not taken hold of his hands and pinned him down with those extraordinary eyes.

‘Tiberius, I am old, and one day I must depart, as your father-in-law did. When that time comes, I wish to exit with the knowledge that Rome is in safe hands. Lucius and Gaius are children, and though they carried both Agrippa’s blood and the Julian name, they are untried, unknown. There is every possibility that they would not turn out as well-rounded as you are, Tiberius. I regret that you are not my son, for I have every confidence that my Rome will be safe in your keeping.’ He paused, sensing Tiberius’ distress at the implication. ‘I will not be gone for a while yet, young Tiberius.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘Nevertheless, it is time for me to earnestly lay out a plan for Rome’s survival when I’m gone. She had toiled for too long in our civil wars and power struggles. It must not happen again. I will not allow another Antonius to threaten her, even when I’m dead.’ His grip on Tiberius’ hands was painful, though Tiberius barely felt it. ‘That is why, my Tiberius, you must place yourself as one of the possible successors to the Principate. You must marry Julia.’

Cold shock shot through Tiberius; he jerked his hands from Caesar’s grasp. ‘But I am married to Vipsania!’ He cried. ‘Do you mean for me to divorce my wife?’

‘Yes.’ Caesar replied tranquilly.

‘But I love her, Vipsania is everything! Julia, Julia is-‘Tiberius flailed, unable to voice the sordid, well-whispered accusations against the Princeps’ daughter and only child.

‘Agrippa’s marriage to her cemented his position as my heir. The continuity of the Julian line would have given him the legitimacy he needed to succeed me as Princeps.’

‘For all the respect due my father-in-law, he was born a nobody, Caesar! He needed the name! I am a Claudian! We are as old, as venerated as the Julii themselves! I will not divorce my wife for a name!’

‘Marry Julia, and we will be kin.’ Said Caesar.

Tiberius stopped dead in his pacing, mid-stride. He stood very still. Kin of Divine Julius, son of Divine Augustus, touched by the Gods - his mind whispered. He licked his suddenly dry lips.

Augustus had not moved from his seat, straight-backed and regal. His face had not changed, impassive and patient, the picture of sacred serenity. Tiberius began to weep.

‘Caesar, I cannot. Vipsania would be heartbroken.’

‘She will be, for she is a loyal woman and a good wife. But she will understand, for she is a virtuous Roman matron. We will ensure she has all the comforts she ever needs.’

Tiberius continued to weep; if Caesar found this unbecoming of the general, he said nothing.

‘Do you resent me for this, Tiberius?’ He asked, without censure, as Tiberius finally calmed.

‘No, no, Caesar. I- I- that you would choose me, I feel-‘Tiberius faltered, what did he feel? It was everything he thought he could never be, for Augustus to trust and depend on him, for him to see Tiberius as his heir, his family. Yet, to divorce Vipsania? To marry that- that strumpet, Julia? No, it was not Caesar’s fault. She was the one who dragged their divine name through the mud; she was the one who made this unpalatable; she was responsible! It was not Caesar’s fault.

‘I will do as you asked, Caesar.’ Said Tiberius at last.

‘Father, Tiberius. You may call me father.’ Caesar smiled. ‘And I thank you, I know this is a painful decision for you, my child. I would not have asked it of you if there were any other choice.’ He clasped his slender hands around Tiberius’ larger ones, and this time the manacle stayed, meeting no resistance.

‘Go, my son, take all the time you need to put your marriage in order. I will take care of Julia’s side of things. Come see me when you are ready.’ 

‘Yes, father.’ Tiberius stood shakily. In his heart, rage warred with pride, grief warred with joy.

—

When Julia finally arrived, it was at the escort of Livia Drusilla. She had been right, Augustus thought tiredly, Tiberius must be made one of his heirs, if the Principate were to survive. Maecenas had voiced his reservations at first; but he acceded once Livia suggested the marriage between Tiberius and Julia, his only child, the widow of the only person he ever loved.

He nodded at Livia in silent gratitude, for she had been his reliable co-conspirator in all the years they had been married. Time and again she had advised him, executed his plans, lied effortlessly to protect him and- no, no, best stop right there.

Julia glared at her step-mother as she departed, taking all the slaves and scribes with her. The door clicked shut. Footsteps of guards and servants chorused and faded. Why he had thought some of Livia’s discretion might rub off on Julia, he would never know.

‘My little Rome, come and sit.’ He said, calling her by her childhood nickname, and Julia did. She stared at him, twitchy with apprehension, where once she would have hugged him and smiled at him, would have called him ‘tata’ joyously.

It had been a long time since he truly looked at Julia, so much like him, and could not be any more different. Her hair was a flaxen blond, like his. Her eyes were a pale grey, like his. Her face was sharp and fine-featured, like his. No Julian had been more of a disgrace.

‘Julia,’ he began, ‘I heard you had been well.’ That was one way to phrase the rumours surrounding her activities, he thought distastefully. According to Livia, she had mourned for a respectable three months. What followed those months, Livia was too decent to say, but which his praetorian agents relayed with gleeful detail.

‘Yes, father.’ She said neutrally.

‘Then, I presume you would have no objection to re-marrying. I have someone suitable in mind.’ He went straight to the point. Julia recoiled and stared at him in shock.

‘You- you have no right. I’m no longer under your authority as paterfamilias, father! I am sui iuris - emancipated!’ She exclaimed indignantly. ‘I am free to choose my own life, as any Roman widow is!’

‘Clearly, you cannot be trusted with that responsibility.’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘And you are not any Roman widow, Julia. You are a Julian woman; you are Caesar’s daughter. I do not need to tell you again, I hope, what your role in the continuation of the Principate is. You have a duty, my child.’

‘And I have fulfilled it!’ cried Julia. ‘Have I not bore five children for Agrippa, two of whom you have adopted into the Julian name? There are more than enough heirs for you to choose, surely you don’t need me to pop out any more.’

‘It is not a question of children, Julia, and you know it. Stop being obstinate, it ill-suits you.’ Caesar reprimanded.

‘What is it, then?’ Julia’s face, almost the same as his, twisted in a way he would find difficult to imitate. ‘If whoever marries me would gain too much power, I can simply not marry. I do not need to. I am free to choose my own life.’ She reasserted. ‘You know I can. I have your genius. I have my wealth. I can manage my own investments, run my own ventures. I can go anywhere, do anything I want. Now I can.’

Caesar sighed, not eager to go over the same argument they had had countless times before, so he simply abandoned it. ‘You will not. You will stay here, in Rome. And you will marry Tiberius.’

It seemed impossible for Julia’s face to twist any uglier, but it did. ‘Tiberius?! Are you out of your mind?’

‘I assure you, I am still sharper than the entire senate put together, Julia. And do not shout.’

‘He hates me!’ Julia ignored his order, hands going to her hair. ‘And I, him!’

Caesar raised one eyebrow at her. ‘I seem to recall you having a very intense crush on him. When you both were married, at that.’

‘That was aeons ago! And how did you know that? No, don’t answer. I never did anything untoward, yet he was as harsh with me as if I had prostituted myself to him!’

‘Well, it matters not. You are marrying Tiberius, right after he divorces Vipsania, which will be soon, I’ll make sure of it.’

‘Vipsania!’ Julia screeched. ‘My step-daughter! Child of Marcus Agrippa, my dear, dear husband! Another divorce and marriage ordered by Caesar!’ Julia’s eyes were wild, her hair falling out of its neat golden bun. ‘Is there anybody you would not order into bed in the name of Rome, Caesar?! Oh, but you did not have to order Marcus Agrippa! You need simply ask, and he would do anything for you.’ She began to laugh uncontrollably, stopped abruptly, rose like a cornered animal and bore down on him, her face inches from his.

‘Did you really think I did not know, Imperator Caesar.’ Julia sneered. ‘Who it was that Marcus Agrippa saw on our conjugal bed? Who he wished he was siring sons with? Who he pretended he was fucking?’

Slap!

Deafening silence. For a few beats, the only sound was Caesar’s ragged breaths.

Julia’s face was twisted to one side; her body listed with the force of his strike. She did not straighten, did not speak, did not even lift her head.

There is blood on my hands, thought Caesar absurdly. Of course there was blood on his hands; he was Caesar.

‘You will marry Tiberius.’ He said eventually. This time, it was the Princeps’ order. ‘The union will give him the status he needs to be accepted as my heir, should Lucius and Gaius prove unsuitable. Livia will see to the ceremony. You are not to leave your home without my express permission until then. We will send for you when everything is ready. Dismissed.’

His daughter stood, golden hair still loose and wild, covering her burning grey eyes, so much like his. ‘Yes, Caesar’, and she left. She did not look at him.

As soon as the great bronze doors of his study closed behind Julia, Caesar sagged in his seat, struggling to draw in raspy gasps of breath. Clammy fists came to beat at his own chest. Come now, Gaius Octavius! You are the master of your own body! You have this thing beaten before your twentieth year! Caesar thought desperately, throwing all of his brilliance at the simple act of drawing breath.

No large, warm hands came to soothe at his back. No gentle fingers tipped his chin up to make sure he did not gag. No whispers of encouragement at his ears. No one to tell him they loved him. No one to vow they would never leave his side. No one to wrap their arms around him, like bands of steel, gentle. No one to laugh, to joke that they would have to climb Olympus now, would they - if they wanted to be with him - since he was Divine Augustus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Agrippa’s sudden, causeless death broke Augustus’ heart. From this point on, he depended more and more on his wife, Livia, for counsel. She’s rumoured to have murdered all of his heirs to make way for her son, Tiberius. There is no historical evidence supporting this, save for the fact that they did all die young, including Agrippa.  
> \- Tiberius loathed Julia, and might have intentionally left her to starve to death. He blamed Julia and Vipsania’s next husband for his unhappiness, but never did seem to resent Augustus (though they did quarrel). He was also an extremely religious man, and it’s possible that Julius Caesar and Augustus were at this point too holy to be blamed.  
> \- Augustus wasn’t deified until after his death (after which he was referred to as Divus Augustus, as Caesar was Divus Julius), but people did start worshipping him in some places. He was reported to have disapproved but tolerated it. After all, he understood the power of quasi-religious fervour very well.


	2. Boring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 34 BC. Fidus Achates was loyalty personified. Capable, steadfast, and utterly boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Informed by a very incomplete understanding of Aeneid. I might end up revising this characterisation of Vergil and Horace as I learn more about them. But in the meantime if anybody wishes to stone me for abusing these legendary figures, I probably deserve it... A thousand sorry’s to any classicist who stumbled upon this.

‘You don’t like him.’

Vergil started at Caesar’s voice from behind him. The Princeps could move with commanding presence or disquieting silence, whichever suited his present purpose. And he always enjoyed sneaking on his friends like a spectre, just for sport.

‘Pardon?’ asked Vergil after a moment of appearing to recollect himself. It did nothing to fool Caesar, who only smirked at him. Obeying the silent command, Vergil returned his gaze to where it had busied itself just moments prior.

Beyond the colonnade where they stood, the neatly-kept grounds lay in resplendent beauty. Guarded by tall cypresses on either side, green shrubs danced with golden primroses, with pink orchids, with blue nightshade. At the feet of little fountains, true-white lilies stood apart from them like untouchable nymphs. From its marble throne, running water leapt and twinkled at them merrily. Vergil sighed, he loved Caesar’s home, such natural beauty wedded so masterfully to man-made art, and all seemed rather wasted on the man himself. No, Caesar cared not a fig for the beauty of the world, beyond the thought that they ought to adorn his Rome.

‘It was mostly thanks to him, you know.’ Caesar’s voice broke through his thoughts again. ‘If you enjoyed this garden of mine, he is the one who should receive credit. Always liked things to be both magnificent and beautiful. You should see the amount of fuss he put in into civil projects when he was aedile.’

‘No doubt.’ Vergil agreed genially. ‘I admire the general as much as anybody. It would be futile to try to enumerate his achievements, and his manly virtues are beyond reproach.’

Caesar only smiled that strange smile of his, young and old, warm and cold, very much like the sphinx upon his signet.

The object of their gossip stood on the other side of the garden, engaged in conversation with another visitor, all too familiar to Vergil himself. Agrippa gestured northwards, impassioned by whatever he was trying to describe to Horace. The poet nodded thoughtfully and interjected something with a graceful finger on his chin. Vergil despaired that his closest friends all had such courtly manners, sometimes he thought it most ridiculous. Agrippa responded with his own vigorous nods, neither man had noticed Vergil and Caesar, partially hidden by the tall columns.

‘Well, he is Fidus Achates to your Aeneas. It is commendable.’ At length Vergil yielded to the silent probing with a sigh. ‘We are not close friends, but that is to be expected — our interests ran in different directions. Is it not enough that we are both yours?’

‘I never protested otherwise. You know I am fond of you both.’ Caesar said soothingly, but there was a sharp edge of humour in his voice, one that Vergil fancied only those who had known him as long as himself might notice. Of Caesar’s friendship he had no doubt, and of his own soft spot for the man he was well aware. But there was nothing in the world to compare with the relationship between the first and second man in Rome. Had Vergil been brave enough to voice it, he might have said they were lovers, except even that seemed wanting.

Vergil studied Caesar from the corner of his eye. The long years of toil had hardened that beautiful face, and the shining youth he had met all these years before was long gone. The beauty had remained, and Vergil’s poet heart trembled at the sight of it still. Yet beauty is a charm that withers, and the soul is just as easily cut and marred as the flesh. He wondered, he worried, if—

His train of thought was cut short by the two figures, now drawing near. The two men had apparently concluded their conversation, or else had mutually decided they both had things they would rather attend than each other.

‘Caesar.’ Agrippa was on them first, his large, trunk-like arms folding the Princeps in a friendly embrace. Vergil saw Caesar smile, it looked very young. ‘Vergilius.’ he nodded to Vergil with his customary open warmth.

It was Horace’s turn to pay his respects, but Caesar waved his formality away and gave him a loose hug. Normally, Caesar would spend a few moments in their company, giving little hmm’s and ah’s as they sounded their newest ideas at him and each other. At those times Vergil could tell he appreciated their art honestly, even though he had not the slightest talent for it himself.

But Agrippa was there, and with soft pleasantries Caesar sent them off. You must call upon me tomorrow, Horace. I look forward to reading your next draft, Vergil, please! Let me have a peek before you go back to polishing them, eh? And ever firmly he pushed them away.

Vergil stole a glance at the pair as he and Horace took leave of them. This part of Caesar’s Palatine home was very sparsely staffed, the two men cut a lonesome figure as they walked back inside together, Agrippa’s arm still wound around the other.

‘You don’t like him.’ Horace said some time after they left Caesar’s home. Vergil was almost overcome with a desire to strangle his best friend.

‘Not you, too!’ he couldn’t stop the exclamation. Horace raised an eyebrow at him, the exceedingly handsome face barely containing his mirth at the older man’s expense. Vergil wanted very badly to throttle him.

‘The Princeps noticed too, eh? But of course he would. No matter, he doesn’t mind.’ Horace replied flippantly, linking his arms in Vergil’s with a casual loftiness that did not permit comment.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Vergil replied mutinously. Horace only chuckled.

‘I don’t see why. He is friendly, generous, intelligent. And did you see those biceps?’ Horace said, completely ignoring Vergil.

‘Yes, yes, I saw them.’ Vergil gave up. ‘But why does everybody think I don’t like the general? He is everything you said, and more. He has always been there for Caesar. Without him, Caesar might not have overcome his foes, and we would not be living this carefree life, you and I.’

‘That’s just it, isn’t it?’ Horace replied, the sharp light in his eye reminded Vergil of his friend’s shrewdness, often hidden behind his grace and charm. Almost like a certain Princeps. ‘He has always stood beside Caesar, ready at our leader’s command, but very rarely tried to contradict him.’ Horace held up a hand. ‘On details, sure. Irrelevant things like military campaigns and certain laws.’ Vergil gaped; Horace did not deign to notice. ‘But rarely, if ever, on the course of their actions? The philosophy of it? As far as you could tell, he never acted the voice of conscience to the Princeps, even though he was the only person who could?’

‘Gaius never did anything without good reason!’ Vergil protested hotly. It sounded hollow to his ears, but he stood by it, would do to his last breath. ‘He had made mistakes, terrible— hadn’t everybody? And this is the result.’ Vergil flung his arm in a half-circle. They were halfway up the Esquiline Hill, almost arriving at Maecenas’ spacious villa, where both lodged for the time being. Before, behind, and around them, Rome slumbered in restoring sleep, well-fed and secure. ‘I haven’t known anything else but war and unrest since I was born, Horace, and neither have you. We only have this thanks to him.’ he asserted to his friend.

Infuriatingly, Horace nodded, sympathetic and pleasant. ‘I agree. And this is far from the first time we’ve had this conversation, my dearest friend. But we’re not talking about Augustus.’ Horace stressed the new name with a smirk, and Vergil flushed, made aware of his slip back into the intimate one by old habit.

‘You don’t like him.’ Vergil stopped walking, the fact abruptly became clear to him. ‘No— you respect him in your own way, and you are true to him, as you are to all of your friends. No, I’m not accusing you of duplicity, my Horace. It’s simply that— deep down, you don’t like him, same as how I don’t like Agrippa.’ Vergil said, throwing denial to the wind.

Horace had also paused. He smiled at Vergil warmly, affection clear in his intelligent eyes. ‘That’s why he likes me, of course.’ he said. ‘He has this strange need to be both adored and scorned, our leader. I dare say nobody performed this balancing act as well as myself.’

‘So see, he values hard counsel. It is his friends’ duty to give it to him, and he will listen.’ Vergil persisted.

‘I know. I, you, and Maecenas do fill those roles quite splendidly, if I may say so myself. The counsel of poets is valuable indeed.’ Horace replied cheerfully, and Vergil could not quite tell whether he was even serious. He opted to ignore the remark.

‘And you think Agrippa doesn’t give him good counsel?’ he asked instead. Horace lifted an eyebrow in that irritating way of his.

‘That’s not my opinion, dear Vergil. It’s yours, remember?’

Vergil wanted to damn all of his eloquence and just scream.

‘I mean, he is just like your Achates, isn’t he?’ Horace hastily amended, hand gently urging Vergil to resume their walking. It was rather late. ‘Capable, loyal, utterly boring? I think you didn’t give him enough credit, to be fair.’

‘Is that what you thought of my Aeneid, boring?’ Vergil asked, immediately overcome with self-doubt as only a conscientious artist could.

‘Gods, no, Vergil, not again. I assure you, poet’s honour, every line so far is the finest I ever read— including the rejects. And remember how everyone was riveted by the story? No. It is simply this. Your Aeneas falls further and further into the dark in pursuit of his destiny. Fidus Achates followed him, never even trying to save Aeneas from himself. Such is the story you are obliged to tell, and a part of you is unhappy with it.’

Vergil was silent, and Horace let him be as they walked. Finally, in front of Maecenas’ doors, he paused. ‘Just so you know, I hate your intellect.’ he said, hanging his head. He muttered something to himself.

‘My Aeneas is consumed by hatred, and he stood by. My Aeneas staggered under his fate, and he helped— chaining him further! Who then, could bring Aeneas back to the light, when his Achates follows him into the dark? Who will counter the king when needs must? Who steers him from the wrong paths?’ As Vergil rambled, his monologue grew more scattered.

Horace laid a soothing hand on his back. ‘Peace, my dear Vergil. Peace. Your Italia is safe, the shadows have passed. They won’t return in our lifetime.’ he said with prophetic conviction.

They stood for a while in front of the closed doors. Vergil breathed in the clear, cool air. The Esquiline is set apart from the other hills, and he was grateful for the change. Geranium was strong in the wind, its sweet scent reminded him of hot summer nights in Athens, of endless days in the arms of Naples.

‘Maybe he did give him hard counsel, we don’t know.’ Horace’s voice broke through his pleasant dream. ‘And the man has an Olympian will, doesn’t he? It seems right that his best friend should not try to rein him in, but be there for him, and intercede only at the most crucial of moments.’ Vergil was too tired to ask of whom Horace spoke.

Horace shrugged and turned to knock on the large doors. He smiled at Vergil as a servant let them in. ‘Have some faith in the best friend. He knows best.’


End file.
